


Fire or Ash

by DarkxKirlia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Character Death Fix, Daenerys isn't happy about it, Depression, Dragons, F/M, Fire, Fix-It, Heartbreak, Kinvara brings Daenerys back, Lord of Light - Freeform, Madness, Magic, Novelette, Resurrection, Short, Valyria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 17:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20586221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkxKirlia/pseuds/DarkxKirlia
Summary: “You are fire made flesh. Fire is light, it is life, but for those who get too close, they will burn. It is as it has always meant to be.”





	1. Chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my take on the fix-it resurrection type of fic for Daenerys. I was dreadfully angry about how her story unfolded, so I wrote this. It ended up longer than I originally thought it would be, about thirty pages. I'll be uploading it all in one go, so enjoy a full finished story. :)  
Also, i've done a bit of editing but nothing in-depth so their are probably mistakes.

Her first thought after waking wasn’t about the chilly ice she laid against, or the heat in her chest that burned in a way she had never experienced before. It wasn’t of the chanting in High Valyrian that she couldn’t make sense of, or fingers trailing over her arms. It wasn’t even the thought of her ultimate betrayal; the feeling of steel digging into her chest, or the feeling of the traitor’s tears brushing against her cheeks. 

Her first thought was of her begging a fiery god not to force her back. 

It was a fading memory, turning darker and darker as she approached consciousness; her head, resting in the lap of the burning lord, her curls fanned out around her. Her tears were as silver as her hair, blending into the strands as they fell and sizzled upon the God's skin. 

“Don’t make me go,” She pled, her arms curled around the blue flames at his waist. Even his fire did not burn her, as hot as it was. “It is so cold, so cruel, don’t make me go back.” 

His palm-and she had thought dragons were fire made flesh-rested atop her head, fingers trailing across her hair, soothing her. He chanted in an old language, far older than that of Valyrian, and though she could not understand she understood the words were of a calming nature. 

Even without understanding his words, she knew what he said; “You must,” It was as if he said. “You are Stormborn, you are fire and blood, you are the Unburnt.” 

His declaration only made her tears fall faster. “I am madness, I am ashes. I am not salvation, I am destruction.” She answered softly. His hand moved from her hair, resting upon her cheek and guiding her face to look up at him. She could not remember his features, only that they were beautiful and haunting and burning. 

“Ashes always follow fire, and salvation and destruction is an eternal cycle.” As he spoke, his words both loud and soft, she began to hear the chanting of female voices, but this time they were speaking a language she knew. They called to her, named her Fire made flesh, they named her Lightbringer and Lady Flame. 

The mother of Dragons. 

Mhysa.

Khaleesi.

They called her Daenerys Targaryen, and she screamed, felt the physical wrenching of her soul and body as they collided. She reached out, sobbing, begging, and she called for her Lord of fire, but he didn’t answer. 

And when she opened her eyes, the feminine voices stopped chanting, and the familiar chill of life crept back over her skin. 

…

She refused her name. The moment she had stopped screaming, stopped crying, stopped panicking, the Red Priestess above her smiled, and said, “Welcome back, Daenerys Stormborn, my queen.” 

She stared at her, eyes wide and unblinking, the tears still wet on her cheeks. “I am not,” She croaked out, her throat brittle. “I am not.” She repeated. 

The Red Priestess was named Kinvara. She was the High priestess for the Lord of Light in Volantis. She vaguely remembered hearing her name from Tyrion in Meereen. She had helped bring peace to the Slave Cities by proclaiming her the ‘princess that was promised.’ 

At her rejection of her name, Kinvara had only smiled, and offered her something to wear and informed her she had a hot bath waiting for her. She had forced herself to her feet, despite the lead in her limbs, and struggled to the bath. It was too cold. The air, the ground, her body. She missed the heat of the afterlife, of the fiery God who had held her and called her his queen. 

Despite her refusal of her name, the servants at the temple continued to call her by the multitude of her titles. When she snapped at them for calling her Daenerys Stormborn or khaleesi, they turned to calling her Mhysa or the mother of dragons or the unburnt. The titles she had once been so proud of in her former life left her feeling bitter and annoyed. There were no shortage of things they could call her, it seemed. 

“Where is Drogon?” She finally asked after days of moving around in silence. Kinvara stopped staring into the flames, and turned to face her. 

“He delivered you to us and then flew off. He started flying south, towards old Valyria.” She answered simply, and then turned back to watch the flames in the hearth dance. She turned to watch as well, searching for the shapes that the Red Priestesses claimed to be able to see. 

“What does he say?” She murmured softly, moving to step closer, stopping to stand next to Kinvara. The red priestess eyed her. 

“He says many things,” She replied cryptically. “Do you ask what he says about you?” She nodded. “He calls you stubborn. He says, the life has returned to your body, but the fire has not returned to your soul.” 

“You can understand that much from the fire?” 

Kinvara nodded. “That much, and more. Would you like to learn to communicate with him too?” She frowned, eyes narrowed, and then shook her head fiercely. 

“No.” She turned on her heel and stalked away. 

…

It was warm in Volantis, the air humid and the wind a soft hum against her skin. People walked the streets, going about their day. Going to the market, working, making their way towards taverns or whorehouses, or whatever else they did in a regular day. 

She tried to imagine them as the people she had burned, in her first life. The children hugging to their parents, the sound of their screams mingling with the sound of the bells. Buildings toppling, brought to a sound destruction by Drogon’s fire. 

He did it, not I. She told herself. I cannot breathe fire. I cannot fly. I did not burn the innocent. Even as she told herself this, she didn’t believe it. She closed her eyes, digging her nails into the skin of her palms until they bled. She tried to imagine them as claws, as sharp and dangerous as Drogon’s. 

She couldn’t. She could not make the distinction between whether she was more monster or girl. 

…

Spring turned to Summer, and Summer turned to fall, though you could hardly notice in Volantis. 

“The seasons are changing quickly,” Kinvara told her once. “The Lord is impatient. You must accept your destiny, Daenerys Stormborn. You have a purpose, and you must fulfill it.” 

“That’s not my name.” She answered, for the hundredth time. 

…

She hovered her hand in the fire, watching with fascination as she did not burn. It never ceased to amaze her, that she could not catch fire, that her skin could not blister. She felt more than heard the Red Priestesses approach, and she didn’t need to turn to know it was the silent figure of Kinvara behind her. 

“Am I still mad? Or did he take it away when I returned?” She asked. 

“Many say there is no magic without madness.” 

“Are you mad then?” She questioned, removing her hand from the fire and turning to face her. “You are magic, perhaps more so than I. And yet your madness is trivial, at best.” There was a level of scorn in her tone that she often used when speaking to the Red Priestess. If Kinvara noticed the bitterness, the resentment there, she spoke nothing of it. 

“The Lord allows us to choose. As there is no magic without madness, there is no fire without ash, but you were not reborn in ash, Khaleesi. It was fire that remade you, as it remade me once. We can always choose, which to revel in.” 

“When I stepped into the fire, I did not turn to ash, but I should have. Is that why I became Queen of the ashes?” She whispered softly, turning back around and placing her hand back in the fire. 

“You are fire made flesh. Fire is light, it is life, but for those who get too close, they will burn. It is as it has always meant to be.” 

She ignored her then, and she heard the priestesses shoes against the stone as she retreated from the room. 

…

She screams at him sometimes. At night, when the temple is all but abandoned, and those who lived there were tucked away into their rooms, she would sneak out and into the main hall where the hearth always burned. She would rage at him, sneer at his name, blame him for returning to her a world that does not want her. 

There was never any response. 

…

The first time she sees the snow fall in Volantis, it a mere sprinkling of wetness that melts as soon as it touches the ground. 

“We do not get snow often in Volantis.” Kinvara tells her, shooting her a knowing sidelong glance. She ignores her, stepping off of the temple steps and into the courtyard, holding out a hand and letting a flake fall into her palm. 

“Jon,” She murmured, and that one word hurt more than the steel that had pierced her chest. She wanted to name the feeling, call it what it was so that maybe she could heal from it, but it refused to be given title, just as she. Was it anger or sadness? Despair or rage? Hatred? Love? 

It is just pain, a voice whispers inside of her. And pain has no name. 

Yes it does, She answered the voice firmly. It has a name. 

Then what is it? The voice questioned. 

She did not have an answer. 

…

Drogon returns. He descends under the cloak of night, as silent as a shadow. She woke in the middle of the night, and she just knew he had finally returned to her. She left the Temple halls and ran into the courtyard, where her child rested, waiting for her. 

He gave a gentle whimper, his large head approaching slowly, until it stopped only a foot in front of her face. She reached upwards, placing her hand against his snout, and she felt the tears begin to pour. 

And in that moment, she was Daenerys once more. 

Not Queen, not Khaleesi, not even the breaker of chains or the mother of dragons. She was just Dany, in the house with the red door and the lemon tree. She cried harder, reaching forward and wrapping her arms around Drogon’s thick neck, his head nuzzling into her as she hugged him. 

And when her crying finally turned into sniffles, and then silence, she climbed upon Drogon’s wing, settled herself onto his back, and the two of them took off into the night sky. 

…


	2. Chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> `you are the mother of dragons,’ He told her haughtily. ‘All I am, is because of you. If you turn from me, you turn from who you are.’

Despite her complaints, Drogon does not return her to the temple in Volantis. Instead he flies east, and does not stop until they reach the pyramids of Meereen. He lands atop the great Pyramid she had once made a home, allowing her to climb off of his back. 

She glares at him when they are finally face to face. He snorts in response, as if indignant to her obvious upset. 

“I am not Queen anymore.” She hisses at him, and he snorts again, shaking his head, and then turning and flying off once more. 

She shouts her anger at him, but the beast does not return. 

Huffing, she turns and enters into the chambers she had once occupied as Queen of Meereen. They were largely untouched since she had left it seemed, besides perhaps a cleaning every so often. She considered her options slowly, methodically, and then decided that first was perhaps a change of clothes. 

She had left several of her dresses in Meereen, and she dressed in one of her old blue gowns she had so fondly loved. She pulled on a pair of of her old traveling leggings and boots as well, and then left the chambers to seek help. 

A man in the armor of the Second Sons stood watch a few halls down, and he tensed and turned to her, weapon raised. 

“Who are you? How did you get here?” He ordered, taking a step towards her, sword still pointed threateningly at her. She eyed the weapon with disdain, not fear, and mimicked her Queenly facade of the past. 

“I am Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of Meereen.” She answered stiffly. It was the first time she had said that name since returning, let alone referring to herself as it. It felt strange and uncomfortable, and made a ball of panic settle in her throat. She swallowed it down, refusing to show weakness now. 

“The Queen is dead,” The man said flatly, refusing to lower his weapon. 

“And yet here I am,” She answered, a tone of superiority in her voice that almost made her flinch. The guard still regarded her suspiciously. “Retrieve Daario Naharis if you don’t believe me. He can confirm my identity.” 

The man was still cautious, but he gathered the help of another guard, and then they began their trek through the darkened streets of Meereen, stopping outside of a large, loud building filtering light out into the shadows. The two men shared a nervous glance. Honestly, as if she didn’t know what a brothel was. 

She stepped passed them, pushing open the door to the brothel before they could object. The building was crowded, many people fornicating right there for everyone to see. The air smelled of ale and sweat, and the brothel was filled with the sounds of loud conversation and people fucking. She searched through the crowd, looking for the familiarly handsome face of her former paramour. 

Daario Naharis was not a man who had shame, and she doubted he cared about who watched him fuck, but he could also be selfish. He was likely hiding away in one of the brothel’s many rooms with a pretty whore. 

“You can’t just leave without us!” One of the second son guards protested, grabbing her by the arm. She turned to face him, eyes narrowed, glaring evenly. 

“Release me,” She ordered coldly. As if stung, the man moved his hand quickly off of her person. “Which room is he in?” She asked. 

“I don’t know,” He admitted. She ignored the guard, turning back towards the rooms and beginning her search through each and every one. Plenty of people were rather unhappy with her interruption to their illicit affairs, but she closed the doors on them before they could announce their outrage properly. 

As she opened the second to last door, she caught sight of the man she was looking for. He was pounding into a whore with light blonde hair from behind, one of his hands wrapping the locks around his fist and holding it. She watched for a moment, almost in amusement, before announcing herself. 

“Is that anyway to treat a lady, Daario Naharis?” The man froze mid-thrust at her voice, his head turning mechanically to stare at her. His heated gaze turned shocked in a moment, his hands dropping from the woman’s body. 

“Your grace,” he breathed aloud, as if in awe. 

“Finish up here quickly, Daario. Your second sons don’t believe I am who I say I am.”

…

Daario didn’t bother to finish his interactions with the whore, dressing quickly and meeting her outside the brothel. His men found him quickly, and before they could open their mouths he was berating them for their treatment of ‘their queen.’ 

She didn’t bother to tell them she wasn’t really Queen anymore. At least, that she didn’t want to be. For now, she needed their help. She could break the news after. 

“I don’t understand, Grey Worm himself sent word telling us you had been murdered.” Daario explained on their way back to the great pyramid. 

“I had been,” She said easily, giving him a side glance. “I was dead, and then I was not.” It was not a common thing, she figured, for Daario Naharis to be caught completely off guard, and yet here she was, surprising the sellsword so profoundly that his jaw nearly hit the ground. 

“But-” He started, and she shushed him. 

“It’s a long story. I need you to secure me passage to Volantis as soon as possible.” 

“But what about the Unsullied? The Dothraki? Westeros? They all need to know you’re-” She turned to him sharply, and he cut off at her look. 

“No one needs to know.” She answered in a tightly controlled voice. “I’m not returning to Westeros.”

…

Daario is on edge. He still looks at her with the covetous reverence he had in the past, but there is a tinge of otherness there too; not quite fear, but something wary and cautious, as if he’s not sure if she is who she once was. 

She doesn’t tell him he’s right to worry. 

“How?” He asked her, lying in her bed the night after her return. She had felt the heat of his skin briefly in the throne room as they discussed traveling arrangements, and it had reminded her the warmth she had felt in the afterlife. The fire of the Light God’s skin as he held her. She had tugged him into her chambers and asked him to keep her warm through the night. 

“Drogon,” She said simply, staring up at the ceiling. “And the Red Priests in Volantis.” 

“No,” He said quietly, shaking his head and turning her attention to his face. “How did you die? Grey Worm did not give specifics in his letter.” She watched him for a moment, glancing over his striking facial features, the sun tanned skin and full lips. Why could it not have been Daario she loved? Why had she not chosen him? He was immoral and deceitful, but he loved her, and he was loyal to only her. 

Afterall, was she not immoral too? She had burned an entire city...something she had threatened to do many times, but had never actually dared until…

She shook her head at her own thoughts; immoral and deceitful, but loyal. Jon was moral and honest, but he had turned from her… A part of her didn’t blame him; she had done something horrific, afterall. Cruel and evil, something she had fought so hard to never become. 

Another part, the larger part of her, felt the hatred and rage inside of her boil just beneath a thick layer of despair. Had he not seen her pain? Her agony? Her sadness and desperation? Her children had died. Her bear had died. Her only friend in this world had died. He had turned from her, her own hand and her spymaster, and the people she had fought to save-the ones her dragon and her bear had died for…

No, he was as guilty as her; monsters are not born, they are made, but she could not help the madness in her veins. He could have; Jon Snow could have loved her, comforted her, and she would have made a better choice, of that she is sure. He did not have to love her romantically, though it broke her heart he could not. He could have been her family…

“I should have stayed with you,” She says instead of answering Daario’s question, instead of facing the feelings inside of her. “I should have never went to Westeros.” In a moment of weakness she would deny later, she curled herself into Daario’s side and allowed him to wrap his arms around her. She fell asleep like that, and for the first time since she had been brought back, she slept peacefully. 

…

“You are different,” Daario observes quietly. She glances over at him. 

“I was dead,” She answered simply. “And I did not want to come back.” 

…

“Why?” He asks her a week later, only days before she would leave to return for Volantis. He did not elaborate, but she knew what he was referring to. She pressed a kiss to cheek and caressed his neck. 

“You burn and burn...and sometimes you grow tired of the fire. Sometimes, it is easier to be ash.” 

…

Kinvara arrives in the city the night before she would set out for Volantis. She wears her usual revealing red gown, her lips painted crimson, and wears that condescending smirk she always did, as if she knew something others do not. 

‘She does,’ Dany commented dryly in her own mind, ‘though it does not make me resent her less.’

“You cannot return to Volantis,” Kinvara tells her calmly, walking beside her in the courtyard outside of the great pyramid. Dany glances over at her with an icy look. Kinvara smiles indulgently. “It is not your destiny, Daenerys Stormborn.” 

“Tell R’hllor,” Dany said steadily, “That I reject the destiny he has laid out for me. He can find another,” She hissed, turning from the red priestess and back into the pyramid. 

…

Without sanctuary in Volantis from her former life as Queen, she remained in Meereen for some time; she did not reign, just wandered aimlessly through the pyramid, and allowed Daario to keep her warm at night. 

….

Drogon returned to her the next fortnight, perching himself on her balcony, though he was long past the time he had been small enough to do so. He peered down at her curiously, cocking his head to the side as if he didn’t recognize her. 

She scowled at him. “Don’t give me that look,” She muttered, shaking her head. “My reign is over.”

‘Your reign has just begun,’ a voice inside her echoed the words she had once spoken to the slavers before torching one of their ships and destroying their rebellion in one swift battle. 

Her scowl deepened. “I am not your queen,” She yelled up at no one, clenching her fists at her sides. “I am not your princess that was promised, your sword of the dawn, or Azor Ahai; give the title to someone who doesn’t burn cities to the ground!” Her voice raised in pitch until she was screeching at nothing, glaring heatedly at her hearth. 

She turned to Drogon. He was watching her silently, that same curious, knowing look in his eyes. He huffed a puff of smoke at her, and she glared at him. It was as if he were judging her, communicating words with his eyes. `you are the mother of dragons,’ He told her haughtily. ‘All I am, is because of you. If you turn from me, you turn from who you are.’ 

She collapsed to her knees, placing her head in her hands. “I don’t want to be me,” She whispered miserably. “I just want to go home.” 

‘But where is home?’ Drogon asked her softly, echoing the words of her past. 

“I don’t know,” She cried, even as she recognized she was answering to words that had not been spoken. “I don’t know.” 

…

It is the next night she makes a decision. She bathes well, and then dresses in freshly washed traveling trousers and her old blue dress she used to wear as she was conquering Slaver’s bay. She ties up her boots, pulls on her cream cloak, and ties her hair back in intricate and sturdy braids. Daario watches her silently, pleadingly. 

“Don’t go,” He begs her, taking her hands from the ties of her boots and holding them in his. “Stay here. You need not return to the life that brought you so much pain. Stay with me, as you once told me you should have done before.” 

Dany carefully removes her hands from his, and then places her small ones on his cheeks. 

“This is not my home,” She told him softly, sadly. “I wish it were. But do not fear, Daario Naharis; I will return. I promise.” She finished getting ready, placing a sack of food and supplies upon Drogon’s back and tying it around one of his sharp points. Wordlessly, Daario hands her a small blade in its holster. 

She gives him a small smile, and presses a light kiss to his lips. Then she climbs upon Drogon’s back, and the two of them take off into the night.


	3. Chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My children,” She murmurs softly, running her fingers across Drogon’s scales lovingly. “If I asked you, could you bring them back? Could you return to me those I have lost?” She asked quietly, thoughtfully.

They circle the Valyrian peninsula for several days, mapping out the land without actually touching the earth. They make camp on the islands nearby, but do not step upon the cursed land for a week. Before taking the fated step, she stops at a nearby port city and stocks up on supplies. 

Her and Drogon circle the smoking ruins, and then land upon one of the ruined towers. Dany takes her first, hesitant step upon the cursed, smoking land, and finds it is not as monumental as she thought it would be. 

Drogon remains with her as she begins her exploration, as if he too recognizes the constant danger she is here. Sometimes he walks beside her or flies closely up ahead, but she is always within his sight. 

She is grateful for it. 

There is a beauty to the ruins that she had never considered before. While the cities and castles had been destroyed, the earth had continued to blossom and grow. Great green grass, bushes, plants, vines, and trees all grew around the ruins and blocks of stone. It encompassed the ruin as if it were trying to pull it back into the earth and hide its destruction. 

The only architecture Dany had ever seen that came close to the beauty of the ruins was that of Dragonstone, but even then her island birthplace did not even begin to measure up. She found wonders maesters and collectors would kill to even glance upon; Scrolls detailing lost medical treatments, architectural plans, books on lost dragon lore, on sorcery and blood magic, and the crumpled pieces of dragons eggs having turned to stone just as her children had once been. 

Her children; her heart ached at the thought. Viserion and Rhaegal should have seen this place, seen the wonder of the world that their ancestors had belonged to. She should have never locked them in that pit. They were creatures of fire and freedom, and they should’ve remained that way. 

She looked upwards at the sky where Drogon flew above. He soared with a grace and skill not even the most lovely and skilled of birds could copy. 

…

That night, she and Drogon find an old keep still fairly kept together. Drogon hunts for meat nearby, and then lights a large bonfire of sticks and logs Dany had placed together. There, Drogon curls up on the stone, and Dany lies herself against his warm scales. Her eyes stare into the flickering light of the fire, searching for the visions Kinvara and Melisandre had both claimed to see. 

She saw none, but somehow, she knew that if she spoke, the god of fire would hear her. 

“My children,” She murmurs softly, running her fingers across Drogon’s scales lovingly. “If I asked you, could you bring them back? Could you return to me those I have lost?” She asked quietly, thoughtfully. 

It was silent for a long while, so long she almost drifted off to sleep. And then, that voice in her head spoke again. 

‘No,’ It answered disappointedly. ‘I cannot bring back which does not have a body anymore. But I can give you more children.’ Dany sits up at that, glancing around for the voice that was so loud and clear now. 

“How?” She asked aloud, disturbing Drogon’s sleep. Her child sent a puff of irritated smoke at her, and then rested his head back upon the stone. 

‘Upon this island lies the magic of old. Dragons eggs still rest in stone, as your children did. They wait for you, call for you to deliver them back to life.’

“What must I do?” She pleaded. “Magic always has a price. What more will I suffer for this?”

‘You have already suffered your payment,’ He answers her calmly. ‘You need only find the eggs, and the bones of your lost children. Once you do, place them in a large fire lit by your last living son. You will meet them in the flames, and you will save them from the stone prisons they have resided in for centuries.’

“But,” She started, going meticulously over his words in her head. “That would require returning to Westeros, letting the rest of the world know I still live. I cannot. I cannot even begin to find Rhaegal’s or Viserion’s remains.” 

‘To go forward you must go back,’ He answered her, his voice drifting away on the wind. Dany felt sleep call to her, and she closed her eyes and dreamt of the house with the red door. 

…

She flies through the dark of night to the Iron islands, quietly and swiftly landing near the closest and most secretive entrance to Pyke. Drogon takes off back into the sky, but circles overhead, just below the grey clouds. 

She enters the keep with surprising ease, but quickly finds herself on the receiving end of a spear upon her entrance. She holds her head up high, gives a cool look, and demands to meet with Yara Greyjoy. 

She is troubled by how easily she returns to her Queenly facade. 

The guards hold spears at her back as they escort her to the throne room. Yara enters just as she arrives, pulling on her jacket, and then coming to a stop at the sight of her. 

“Your grace,” She breathes out in shock. Daenerys smiles softly. 

“It has been a long time,” She offers politely. She feels the spears leave her back, and can only imagine the surprised and confused faces of Yara’s men. 

“Leave us be,” Yara orders them immediately, even as she makes large strides across the room towards her. Once the men are gone, Yara falls to her knee before her. “How-Your Grace, you-I thought-we were told…” She tries to form a sentence. Dany stops her, shaking her head slightly and motioning for Yara to stand. 

“I am not Queen anymore,” She tells the women calmly. “But I would ask a favor of you, Yara.” 

Yara looks up to meet Dany’s eyes. “Anything.”


	4. Chapter four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could burn you,” She answered finally, making the entire group-besides Bran-to go rigid. “I have no taste for bloodshed anymore. I cannot undo what has been done, I can only move forward. I suggest you do the same.”

“It won’t be easy,” Yara warns her over a hearty breakfast. After speaking for hours into the night, Yara had chambers prepared for Dany, and the two woke up early to break their fast together. “Bran Stark-that Warg boy, who can see into the past and future or something, he’s King now. I would be surprised if he isn’t aware you’re still alive.” She explained. 

Strangely, Dany didn’t feel bothered by this. “I do not fear Bran Stark,” She answered simply. “I do not need anything of the Six Kingdoms, only the remains of my children. Then I will leave Westeros, and I will never return.” She promised. Yara paused at this, holding her jug of ale to her lips but not drinking. 

“Never?” She asked, brows furrowed. “But your grace, you-”

“I burned an entire city.” Dany interrupted her, fierce but soft at the same time. 

“So did I,” Yara snorted. “Many, in fact. I’ve not the soft hearts of those fools who betrayed you, my Queen. You did what was necessary,” Dany smiled sadly, but did not correct her. She was grateful for Yara’s loyalty, and her desire to wipe away Dany’s crimes, but she could not see things the same way. She didn’t want to. 

“Regardless, I no longer want to rule the Seven-Six Kingdoms,” She corrected, remembering Yara’s information about the North becoming independent. 

Yara still seemed troubled by this, but nodded anyway. “I will help you.” She promised. “After all that you did for me and my people, I can never repay the favor, but I will try to start with this. But we will be discovered at some point. Dragonstone is too close to King’s Landing for us to go unnoticed for long.” 

Dany nodded. “I will handle any altercation that may occur.”

…

The altercation took place one week into their search. Yara had sailed out to Dragonstone with two dozen ships and a thousand men. The islanders used old techniques to search the waters below, while also using the nets attached to the ships as well. During their time searching, not once did Dany step foot onto Dragonstone, and she avoided looking at it if she could. 

Unfortunately, the day that thirty ships from King’s Landing circled the island forced her to return to the island. 

Bran Stark, Tyrion Lannister, Brienne Tarth, and several others arrived from the boats to meet her, along with a platoon of guards. Daenerys met them with only Yara at her side, and Drogon flying overhead, hidden partially in the clouds. 

Tyrion was pale as he stared at her, looking like he’d seen a ghost. He probably had, she realized bitterly. Afterall, it was he who had talked Jon into killing her, of that she was sure. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t pay any attention to him when he said her name, or when he spoke at all. 

She looked only to Bran Stark. 

“Have you found them yet?” Was the first thing he said to her. Daenerys shook her head. 

“No, but we’re hopeful the tides haven’t swept them too far.” She answered. Bran didn’t look at all surprised to see her, which she had been expecting. Dany had a feeling the boy saw everything; he may have very well been aware the moment she’d returned to life. He may have even seen it happen. 

“I’ll search,” he offered calmly. “And Viserion’s remains are still held at Winterfell I believe. I will contact Sansa, and see if she can deliver them.” 

“I thank you for your help.” She replied simply, courteously. 

Bran watched her closely, as if he were trying to read her mind. Fortunately, Daenerys was quite certain that was something he was not capable of, but it was unsettling all the same. 

“Once you have completed this task, you will not return to Westeros,” It was a question, and yet not a question; A statement, but not a threat. Daenerys nodded her silent agreement. 

“You’re just going to let her go?” A new voice, a hostile and violent voice, spoke from the troop of men. It was a younger man, muscled and handsome, but barely into his adult years. “She burned the entire city to the ground! She killed hundreds of thousands!” He shouted. Dany said nothing, only stared at him coolly. 

“I could burn you,” She answered finally, making the entire group-besides Bran-to go rigid. “I have no taste for bloodshed anymore. I cannot undo what has been done, I can only move forward. I suggest you do the same.” 

“I will never forget what you did,” The man snarled, lunging towards her, only to be held back by Brienne. 

“I should hope not,” She continued softly. “Crimes of the past that are forgotten are easily repeated. Don’t forget, and neither shall I.” 

…

Tyrion hurried after her once their two parties had begun to part. He called after her, fighting to keep up with her quick pace. 

“Daenerys! Daenerys, please, a moment!” He pleaded. The anger swelled inside of her, mixing dangerously with the hurt, despair, and the betrayal. She whirled on him, forcing the man to come to a stop. 

“What could you possibly have to say to me? You think any apology will make up? That I will explain my return? What could I possibly want to hear from the mouth of a traitor?” She snarled coldly. Tyrion flinched, stepping back as if he had been burned. 

“You know what you did! Why I could not support you!” He threw back immediately, his own anger lighting up his eyes. Daenerys stared him down, cold and cruel and unforgiving. 

“Yes, but you’d turned from me before then,” She told him in the hush of a whisper. “You doubted me, you told my secrets to Varys, you plotted against me, but all of those things I could forgive. I did forgive.” She told him fiercely. “But I cannot forgive how you left me to my grief and madness alone. You saw what I was becoming, the pain I was experiencing and you did nothing. I needed the support of my friends and my allies, not the careful watching of two conniving traitors. The madness in my blood burned that city to the ground, but it was the apathy in yours that allowed it to happen.” She didn’t say anymore at the shocked, pained expression on his face. 

She turned on her heel, and walked back to the ships with Yara. 

…

The moment they received correspondence from Sansa Stark, she knew Jon Snow knew she was alive. She could feel it in her chest, in the hole he’d left in her heart-both figuratively and literally. 

Sansa’s reply to her brother, and subsequently to her, was cold and icy, but not unwilling to send the remains. She promised the remains in exchange that Daenerys never travel up North and never threaten her reign. 

It was an easy promise for Daenerys to keep. 

Sansa promised in turn that she would be sending a group of men down the remains. 

When that group arrived, she was both relieved and disappointed to not see Jon Snow with them. The men were brooding and wary, unkind when they addressed her, but Dany ignored them. 

She had what she wanted. The remains of her child were hard to look at. They were a mixture of dust and bones, her child’s skull staring up at her vacantly. She reached out, tracing her hand over the bone, the ache in her heart intensifying. 

She had loved Jon Snow, but she could never love anyone more than she loved her children. 

And she had lost Viserion saving him. 

She couldn’t say she regretted that day, but she regretted Jon Snow. Regretted that he played a deciding factor in her flying her dragons out past the wall to save them. She regretted that she risked Rhaegal and Drogon in the war of Winterfell, to fight his enemy. She regretted going North, and she regretted ever meeting him. 

He had brought her nothing but pain and misery. Even her love for him had hurt her. 

No, it had killed her. Stabbed a sword through her chest, and let her bleed. Dared to cry over her body as if he were the one that was suffering. As if he hadn’t been the one to stare into the eyes of the person he loved as he murdered them. 

She fought back that familiar anger, focusing on her child. 

She could not bring him back, could never see him fly under a clear blue sky again, or feel his head nuzzle against her side in affection, but she could use the remains of him to give life to more dragons. 

…

Rhaegal’s remains took another three months of scouring the ocean, even with Bran Stark’s help. On a windy day, a ship from King’s Landing arrived with a message from Bran, with the coordinates of her child’s remains. He had warged into a large grey whale, who sat just upon the top of the water to show them the way. He lead them a mile away from his original spot of death, and then began the slow process of carrying up bone and bone, handing them over to sailors who sat waiting in small rowboats, who then carted them onto the ships. His spot of resting was too low for any diving, and so they waited impatiently for each remain to appear. 

Finally, the grey whale bran inhabited surfaced, looked at them, and then dived back down and swam off. 

It was harder to see Rhaegal’s remains. She had never gotten to say goodbye to him properly, it had all happened too fast, and then he was in the water, sinking, and they couldn’t find him. At least with Viserion, she had gotten a final farewell. 

She traced the bones of his body, holding back the tears that wanted to gather in her eyes. His death had been the start of her madness, though she knew Varys and Tyrion had began to think her insane as early as Winterfell. 

But she had never been capable of the things she did to King’s Landing until she had watched Rhaegal fall from the sky- Seen the child she had almost lost at the battle of Winterfell be shot through the neck, chest, hear his cries of pain, and then watch him plummet into the ocean. It was then this uncontrollable rage had settled into her heart and pumped through her veins, just like the wildfire hidden under Kings landing.

…

Dany packed the remains of her children herself, into a large crate attached to a sturdy chain that could be carried by Drogon. 

She stayed for a final feast at Pyke, and then left in the early morning upon Drogon’s back. She hoped to never see the shores of Westeros again.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You do not want to burn the world. I understand. I do not want to either,” He told her seriously, watching as she ran her fingers across Drogon’s neck scales. “But you can still remake the world. Valyria is safe now. Return it to glory, make it a home for those who need you.” He persuaded.

They landed back in Valyria, in the same old ruined keep they’d stayed in before. They settled the crate of bones on the stone floor. Daenerys watched them hesitantly, reluctant to leave her children alone again, even if they were only just bones now. Even in their deaths, she feared for them, for what was left of them. But bones had little use to most people now, even the stonemen who still occasionally wandered the islands would find no use for them. 

Dany and Drogon began to trek the islands again, in search of the stone eggs the fire God had promised her. They searched low and high-in caves by the extinct volcanoes, in crypts of irreparable keeps that threatened to collapse at any moment. 

She found two silvery blue eggs in a cave by the sea, the gentle lapping of the water touching the edges of the stone. 

She found a nest of five nestled into the cliffside of a volcano, the coppery glint of them shining under the sunlight. 

A green egg hidden in the bottom of an old keep, that so much reminded her of Rhaegal. 

A black and red egg hidden in an alcove where it must have rolled during a storm. 

More and more she found, until she had upwards of two dozen stone dragon eggs. 

She kept them close to her at their ruined keep, watching them with a small smile on her face. She nestled against Drogon’s side next to the first, spoke to him softly about her hopes, and he listened quietly, even if he could not understand her words. 

She fell asleep with a smile on her face. 

…

The fire they set could have been seen from Volantis. 

She gathered for days with Drogon’s help, the two working seamlessly together. They gathered small sticks and logs, to pulling entire trees out by the roots. The wood piled up higher and higher. Dany carefully set a place for each of the eggs in the pile, a safe spot among the wood to hatch. 

When it came time to set the blaze, Dany undressed completely, tied her hair back, and stood center in front of the pile of wood, cradling the green egg in her hands. The sun set over the sky, and above she could see the beginning of a red comet, just the same as the one that had crossed the night sky the night her children were born. 

She looked to Drogon, who waited expectantly. She smiled. 

“Dracarys.”

…

A Queen is many things to her people, but even a Queen cannot meet the demands of a mother. The two are separate in ways that most do not understand. A Mother can be a Queen, and a Queen can be a mother, but a Queen cannot begin to be mother to all. She cannot care individually for each subject in her care. She cannot raise the young, usually cannot even suckle her own children at her breast. 

Dany has always been more of a mother than a Queen. 

She loved her people, her subjects, her allies and her friends and her soldiers. She loved them as a mother loved her children, or as close to as she could, but she could not love them like she loved her dragons. 

That is why, when the dozens of Dragon’s hatch from their stone eggs and begin to cling to her and Drogon as their family, she does not think of herself as the ‘Dragon Queen,’ or as ‘Khaleesi,’ but as the title she had loved above all others; The Mother of Dragons. 

She did not want to be Queen; Queen’s had to do terrible things, they had to be both a tyrant and wiseman, and yet they could never embrace their subjects like they truly wished. 

Daenerys preferred this life; her dragon children who loved her and clung to her, and she protected with her life. Her eldest son always by her side, but free to roam and adventure as he was meant to. 

Perhaps this was madness; living on a cursed island with dragons you had birthed from stone. Dragons who viewed you as their mother, and who you viewed as your children. Who breathed fire at your skin, but you did not burn. 

And as her dragon children grew, she kept searching for more stone eggs. She knew there were more of her children waiting for her, to save them and bring them back to life. And so she searched, and she vowed to herself that Queen she may not be, but she was mother, and that was her destiny. 

…

It is a year later when her past comes back to haunt her. News has spread across Essos that Old Valyria is alive again with the songs of Dragons. Drogon and her other children had burned many parts of the island, killing the last of the Stonemen and any raiders that approached, and helping to make the land safe again. 

The Unsullied and Dothraki had come to Valyria from Naath, and Grey Worm had embraced Dany with tears in his normally cold and cruel eyes. They spoke through the night of her journey, of the dragons, of everything. They spoke of Missandei, and paid homage to her memory. 

And as the sun began to rise, Grey Worm asked the dreaded question. “Do you want the Seven Kingdoms still my Queen? I will give them to you.” He swore, just as he had sworn it to her before. Dany smiled and shook her head, petting the head of her baby green whom she had affectionately named Rhaegas. 

“I am Queen no longer,” She told him simply. “My purpose is to be the Mother of Dragons. The children of Fire have returned to the world, and I must care and protect them.” Grey Worm looks troubled, considering her carefully. 

“You are mother to all,” He told her hesitantly. Dany frowned, shaking her head. 

“I cannot be a mother to all, Grey Worm. I tried and I failed.” She explained. Grey Worm shook his head. 

“You were betrayed,” he said seriously. “You were kept from your destiny.” 

“My destiny is not to burn the world to the ground, my friend. Even if it was, I would not do it.” 

“But people still need you,” he insisted, kneeling down before her and taking one of her hands in his. “Please, Mhysa, you are still our mother. Do not turn from us.” 

“How is Naath?” She asks instead, because it is easier. 

He is silent, watching her. Finally he speaks. “There are still slavers who travel there to subjugate them. We hold them off, protect the people.” She nods, smiling. 

“That is good.” She praises simply. 

…

A week into their stay, Grey Worm has an idea. 

“You do not want to burn the world. I understand. I do not want to either,” He told her seriously, watching as she ran her fingers across Drogon’s neck scales. “But you can still remake the world. Valyria is safe now. Return it to glory, make it a home for those who need you.” He persuaded. 

Dany thought about it. She would hardly call the island safe. The dragons may be young, but that only made them more volatile and reckless. And people are eternally fearful of what they do not understand. 

It was her duty to protect her children, and she would not watch a single one be murdered like Rhaegal and Viserion. But some...perhaps a few could stay, she reasoned with herself. 

“The people of Naath,” She said quietly, turning to face her friend. “And the Bay of Dragons. If they seek refuge, a new home, they may come here; but I will let no one, not former slave or master, harm my dragons,” She warned him. 

…

She hadn’t aged, she realized one morning as she braided back her hair. It had been almost a decade since her return to the living world; she should be thirty, if not nearing the number, and yet she looked the same as the day she had returned to life. 

“Is this your doing?” She murmured, turning from her mirror to glance at the hearth she’d lit to keep off the chill of the morning Valyrian wind. She received no response, other than the strong impression that it was. 

She knew then, her fiery God would not allow her to return to him until her purpose was completed.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Welcome to Old Valyria. I thank you for making the journey out here to help assist us in repairing the city. I’ve had food prepared; shall we talk plans while we eat?”

At first, there were only a few stragglers. A handful of citizens from Naath, and a few former slaves from The bay of Dragons. Grey worm approached her with a letter in hand. 

“Daario Naharis asks of you, Mhysa. He asked to remind you that you promised to return to Meereen one day.” Dany took the letter, cracking the seal and reading over his carefully written words and the subtle hint of lovelorn inside of them. 

“When will you return to Meereen, Grey Worm?” She asked simply. The two began to walk side by side through the cobblestone street, still covered in overgrown plants and scattered loose stone. He held his helmet under his arm, his steely gaze glancing around the ruins of her home. 

“Whenever you ask it of me; or, in a few months time. Once people hear of how well things are going, I imagine more would like to come here.” Dany nodded, thinking it over for a moment. 

Dany opened her mouth to respond, when one of her many children soared down from the sky, landing abruptly on Grey Worm’s shoulder. The normally stoic and fearless leader gave a small jump, but made no move to shuck the dragon off. Dany gave a small laugh, smiling as she reached out to rub the head of her child. 

“He likes you,” She stated warmly. 

“Does he have a name?” He asked hesitantly in response. 

“Shyrkos,” She answered, and the dragon cocked its head and blinked at her at the sound of his name. He was a lovely dragon; he was medium sized, not quite as big as Drogon was at his age, but not the smallest of her children either. He was a little too big to be perching on anyone’s shoulders now, clearly weighing the strong Unsullied commander down. His misty silver and blue scales glinted under the Valyrian sun, shining bright enough to be blinding. “He was one of the first of my new children to hatch. He is named for the Old Valyrian God of new beginnings. It seemed fitting.” 

Grey worm nodded, warily reaching out his other arm towards the dragon. Shrykos glanced at the outstretched appendage, and then stretched out his neck and rubbed his face against Grey Worm’s hand, as if having grown weary of waiting for the affection. 

Dany smiled, “He likes you.” 

…

It is with great reluctance that Dany invites large groups of architects and builders onto Valyria. With the influx of people coming to live on her Dragon Island, there was need for safe buildings and homes. The people worked hard, and some had even gotten the dragons to help, but there was too much to do to clear everything out and rebuild. 

The hired help arrived within a fortnight, staring up at the dozens and dozens of dragons flying above with awe and fear. She welcomed them with a gracious smile, climbing down off the back of Drogon to meet them. 

“Welcome to Old Valyria. I thank you for making the journey out here to help assist us in repairing the city. I’ve had food prepared; shall we talk plans while we eat?”

…

Slowly, a market begins to grow. It starts out small, the new residents of the island setting up spots on the main street to trade their fruits and vegetables and clothing. With the return of Grey Worm and dozens of new residents, it turns into a full market. Eventually, traders from all over begin to receive approval to sell their wares on the island, and some even make homes upon the land. 

Many of the old buildings of Valyria were greatly damaged, but the walls that still stood were sturdy and well crafted. The builders and architects repaired buildings instead of making new ones, clearing out the overgrowth of plants and the rubble, and removing all pieces of the buildings that were no longer safe or useful. 

Wood was avoided in building, and was mostly saved for building fires or fences. The dragons and other residents of the island had started to get along well, some even becoming quite friendly, but wood burned far too quickly with young dragons on the loose. 

Dany shared the knowledge of Old Valyria with those who came to it; showing them old architectural plans and books, medicinal recipes and books on magic and craft. A talented smith was approved to come onto the island, and quickly started practicing the technique of making Valyrian steel after Daenerys handed him a large tome on the skill. 

Old Valyria was not just alive with dragons anymore; people had returned to the land, and they were breathing new life into it. 

…

The night one of her dragons is killed by an old slave soldier from Yunkai, Daenerys feels the rage and madness of her previous life build up inside of her once more. Drogon and the rest of her children roar into the darkened sky, flames shooting upwards and outwards in their own show of fury. 

The man begs forgiveness, claims her dragon attacked him first. She will not hear of it; will not suffer his lies. Drogon stands behind her, fire building up in the back of his throat as he awaits the order. Daenerys stares at the man unforgivingly, and ignores the peering eyes of the other island residents. 

“Dracarys,” the man screams as he burns, just as all the others in her past had. After it is over, Daenerys and Drogon glide across the night sky, watching as people hurry to their homes, some even packing up their things and hurrying their families towards the docks. 

Strangely, she does not feel guilt. All she can remember are the images of Rhaegal and Viserion as they fell from the skies, as they cried out in agony and despair. She remembers the wide eyes of her child, the one the man had killed; he had stared up at her with fear and a plea, his little chest working too hard to get the breath in and out of his chest. He had died in her arms. 

Perhaps her dragon had attacked the man; it did not matter. All of her children had learned how to interact with the humans on their island, and even if they hadn’t; even if her child had attacked that man for no reason, she still would’ve burned him. 

She was the mother of dragons; she would protect her children above all others. 

…

Despite the death of her dragon, Valyria continues to thrive. Only those who respect and care for the dragons dare to remain, just as it should be; she, nor her dragons, would suffer interlopers. 

…

The day Jon Snow arrives on Valyria, she wakes with the sense of dread in the pit of her stomach. She wakes to the low growling of Drogon sitting out on her large balcony. She can feel his presence, in her skin, like it had been hiding there, waiting until the time was right to show itself. 

She carefully readies herself for the day, and she climbs onto Drogon’s back and takes off towards the docks. 

Once deserted, the docks are now alive with trade and ships. People wave to her and Drogon as they fly overhead. A familiar ship, one of the North, is docked to the far left. She sees his familiar head of curly black hair. Drogon lands not far off, and Daenerys climb down, keeping close to her child as Jon looks up and meets her eyes. 

He gulps as he approaches, looking her over. Jon opens and closes his mouth, as if he can’t find the right words to say. 

Dany speaks first instead, “What are you doing here?” She asks coldly. He flinches. She imagines she sounds the same as she did in her old life, when she was angry and upset. 

“I-” He starts, and then stops, sighing loudly and dragging a hand over his face. He’s grown older, she notices; no gray in his hair yet, but the start of lines around his eyes. “I didn’t believe it, when Sansa sent me that letter. And then, I heard about the dragons and what you’re doing here...I had to see it for myself.” He admits. 

“Well now you’ve seen it.” She answers flatly. “You and your men can gather the necessary supplies to return home, and then I expect you off of Old Valyria. You’re not welcome here, Jon Snow.” She warns. She turns her back, intent on that being the end of the conversation. 

“I am sorry,” He says quietly. “For...for what I did. I just ...I didn’t want what happened to happen again.” She closes her eyes, forcing her rage down as she takes deep breaths. As angry as she is, she cannot deny his words, cannot deny the truth of them. He had thought her a monster, and why wouldn’t he? He’d watched her burn King’s Landing down with his own eyes. 

It was an act she would never forgive herself for, madness or not; but that didn’t mean she was capable of forgiving him either. She had loved him and he had loved her, and he killed her. He stabbed her in the heart. 

She rubbed at her chest, the memory of the pain still fresh in her mind. She doubted it would ever fade. 

“It is done. What’s happened has happened, and there is no undoing it. Return home, Jon Snow; and never force me to look upon you again.”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Norvos burned.

The city grows as her dragons do. Old Valyria begins to look more and more like an actual city rather than an abandoned civilization. People walk along the streets, and dragons fly all around, some perching themselves atop of houses to stare over the land. 

It’s beautiful. It’s more than she could have ever dreamed of. It is a place where dragons are not monsters and neither are people. She sits astride Drogon as they look out over the city, and she can feel Drogon’s own satisfaction with their home. 

They fly out over the city, landing at the docks at the sight of a dozen ships with red sails. Standing aboard the ships are men and women dressed in red robes and silks. Standing at the front of the largest and closest ship to the docks is Kinvara, smiling upwards at Dany and Drogon. 

“What are you doing here?” Daenerys demands, once the ships finally dock and she climbs off of Drogon’s back. Kinvara continues to smile that unsettling smile of hers, glancing her eyes around the reborn city. 

“It is lovely work you have done,” Kinvara compliments. “The Lord of Light is proud, Khaleesi, but your work is not yet done. There are those in this world who still fear you. They fear your dragons, and what harm you will cause with them.” The smile fell from Kinvara’s face, her eyes snapping to meet Dany’s. 

“Who?” She demands, clenching her fists as she feels a familiar burning settle in her gut. She would allow no one to harm her dragons, it did not matter who they were. 

“We must talk in private.” Kinvara suggests. 

“Follow me,” 

…

She leads Kinvara and her followers to her own recently refinished home. It is not a castle, but it is large and lovely; settled upon one of the highest mountains, Dany ensured it had plenty of surrounding space for her dragons to land and rest, with a large balcony outside her room where Drogon often relaxed. Many dragons rested themselves around her home, and the servants she employed to help keep things clean moved around them effortlessly, some even tisking at dragons choosing to rest in strange places and patting the dragons backs to make them move. 

Daenerys smiled at both people and dragons, and lead Kinvara into the dining hall. 

“You can speak freely here; no one will interrupt us.” She promised, pouring the red Priestess a cup of wine and then one for herself. 

“Northerners, Westerosi, Qartheen, and those left of the defiant slave masters have worked together to form an army against you. It is rather large now, and it is only getting bigger. They’ve been working quietly though; they hope to avoid reaching your knowledge until they attack.” Kinvara explained. 

Dany tapped her fingers against her glass. “Sansa Stark? Bran Stark?” She asked expectantly. 

“The men from Westeros are defectors, Bran Stark plays no role in their fight against you. Sansa Stark does not actively play a part in this army, but she did quietly send over 20,000 Northmen to fight against you. The Qartheen and former slave masters had bought the help of all sell swords that would dare to fight against you.” 

“They think they can defeat me? My dragons? My armies?” 

Kinvara shrugged one shoulder. “Even now your dragons are a threat, but they are still young, only the size of large wolves. They are not yet impervious to arrows, and from what I have gathered, an arsenal of the large weapons previously used against your dragons by the Lannister Queen have been created. As for your armies, the Unsullied have only diminished in size, and many of the Dothraki returned to their homeland and do not follow under Grey Worm any longer.”

Dany clenched her fists. “They want to kill my dragons?” She asked quietly, for clarification. Kinvara nodded silently. “Where are they located?” 

“They’ve taken up in Norvos for now.” 

“In the city?” Kinvara gave her a knowing look. 

“They threaten your children and your life, Khaleesi. You must make a choice; it is you and your dragons, or it is them,” Kinvara set her cup of wine down, heading towards the door of the room. “There are always casualties. Those casualties can be you and yours, or it can be them and theirs, but there will be bloodshed whether you wish it or not.” 

…

She supposes this is what she was always meant to be; it was as Kinvara had told her all those years ago after she awoke from death. 

‘You are fire made flesh. Fire is light, it is life, but for those who get too close, they will burn. It is as it has always meant to be.’ Kinvara had warned her. 

“I cannot be fire without creating ashes.” She murmured to herself, staring out at the lights of her city, of the fire her dragons breathed into the air. “And if I am not fire, then I am ash.” 

She dressed herself in the colors of her house, a blood red and deepest black. She tied her hair back in familiar braids, and climbed herself up onto Drogon’s back. She ran her hand over the scales of his neck, huffing a sigh out into the night sky. 

“Promise me,” She spoke clearly, staring into the many surrounding fires. “Promise me that I will not lose myself again. Promise me that fire doesn’t always have to bring destruction.” She was nearly pleading up at a lost God, and she waited in silence for his response. 

It was subtle, like a whispered breath on the wind. ‘Does Water not revive and drown? Does Ice not both preserve and shatter? Tonight you must destroy, so that tomorrow you can restore.’

Dany didn’t believe she would get a different answer than that, and so she and Drogon took off into the night, headed Northwest, towards Norvos. 

…

Norvos burned. Not all of it, but enough. Enough to destroy her enemies, to halt any progress they’d made at building an army to rise against her and her dragons. Enough that thousands of innocents had died with them. 

Drogon flew over the smoking city, and Dany felt both guilt and satisfaction well inside of her; she had protected her children, and the residents who had made homes on Valyria, but others had suffered and died to save them as well. People who had not earned their pyres. 

…

The people of Valyria cheer her return. Her dragons shriek and squawk at the sky joyfully, many flying up to soar around her and Drogon in welcome. She lands Drogon in the center of the city, and the people leave their homes and surround her. As she descends off of his back, each and every resident of Valyria drops to their knees before her. 

She had seen this picture before; had watched as those she had freed had kneeled before her, their eyes shining with love and devotion as they proclaimed her their queen. Before, it had settled a warm feeling in her chest that she now recognized as pride. Now, the sight made Dany’s heart drop into her stomach. 

She raised her palms up, opening her mouth as she readied herself to stop them, claim, ‘I am not your Queen! Please, I cannot!’ but the words never escaped her. Standing in the very center of the crowd was a man made of fire. She could not make out his facial features, but he wore shining gold armor, and he watched her silently. 

His presence told Dany all she needed to know, and she closed her eyes in grief. She had always known her destiny, even as a frightened child lost in the world. Even when she had lost Drogo and her son, and her khalasar, she had known her destiny. Perhaps, even as she had been intent on wasting away in that temple sacred to him in Volantis she had known, even as she tried to deny it. 

She was Daenerys Storm, of the Great house Targaryen, but she had always been more than that; she was the mother of dragons, Azor Ahai, the princess that was promised, the red comet that had brought magic back into a lost world. She was the Dragon Queen whose destiny had always been this; she was meant to light the world on fire, and whether her flames were destructive or healing, had been no choice of hers. 

It was for the people to decide how they burned. 

She stood before her people, listened as her children sang their song in the sky, and she nodded her head at the fiery God. 

…

That night, she was dressed in her finest white silk dress, her hair more intricately braided than it had ever been before. Standing upon the street outside her home, people and dragons waited together. They watched in silent reverence as she walked, Drogon flying low above her. She walked the streets of Old Valyria for over an hour, until she had finally reached the clearing. Her people stood huddled in a circle around a large, intricately carved obsidian throne. It was clearly modeled after Drogon, the black gleaming and carved like scales. The arms are shaped like his claws, and the back of the throne magnificently carved upward and outward in the shape of his two large and looming wings, encircling the sides of the chair like a protective shield. 

It had been made for her by the craftsmen who had come to live her, those she had given tomes on working with valyrian steel. Clearly, they had found a way to melt and shape dragon glass too. 

The people parted as she walked, never taking their eyes off of her as she reached the throne. Drogon roared above, the strength of his flapping wings causing the leaves to fall from the trees behind her. He slowly descended, hovering a foot above the ground in front of her. The two made eye contact, the bond between them needing no words, just as always. His mouth opened, flames gathering in the back of his throat, and he roared his flames upon her. 

She felt the heat, but she didn’t burn. She hadn’t expected too. The white silk burned away from her body, falling into a heap of feeble ashes beneath her. The fire only lasted a few seconds, but once it ended she was fully bare. Drogon flew back up into the sky, and in front of her, she saw her people, kneeling before her in reverence. 

Off to the side, a child kneeled as well, her small arms feebly clutching a pillow where a magnificent crown made of Valyrian steel sat. Daenerys approached the child, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. The child jumped, her head peering up to meet her gaze. Daenerys smiled, and nodded. 

The child beamed up at her, and watched with barely controlled excitement as Dany lowered herself to her level, tilting her head down. The child set the pillow on the ground in front of her, and grabbed the crown off the top of it, lifting it up and placing it atop of Dany’s silver-gold hair. 

Daenerys murmured a soft thank-you to the child, who smiled and hurriedly scampered off to their mother or father. Daenerys stood back up to her full height, moving to her new throne, and she stopped; she turned to glance at the people before her, those who had come to her willingly; they had known of her horrors and crimes, and the dangers they would face upon her island. And they had come anyway. They trusted her to love and protect them. 

She would not let them down. Resolutely, she sat upon her obsidian throne, and the songs of both her people and her dragons filled the night air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! I know it's kinda abrupt, but I was pretty happy with where I ended it. In my head, I have this image where Daenerys continues to build up Old Valyria and remaining it New Valyria. The dragons grow and remain a stable part of the society, and people continue to grow along with them until people start developing features like Daenery's and the other Targaryens. Eventually, Daenerys begins to age again, and knows she has fulfilled her purpose of rebuilding the world it was meant to be-a place filled with magic.   
Please leave any questions in the comments and I will try to answer them for you! Or, if you just wanna discuss, I'm cool with that too. :D Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!


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